The Age Atomic (25 page)

 

FORTY-FOUR

 

Carson tutted as he worked at the control console, his soldering iron moving with precise strokes, jeweler's eyepiece rammed into his good eye. He tutted again, then raised the board at arm's length and admired his handiwork.

“I fear for Mr Fortuna's safety, sir.”

The Captain
hrmmed. “
And what of our safety, Byron? What of the safety of the Empire State itself?”

“I can sense a change in the world,” said Byron's voice, filling the airship cabin from nowhere.

“So can I, my old friend, so can I.”

“I can sense a change in Mr Fortuna.”

Carson looked up. “The Fissure?”

“The energy signature is weak.”

Carson frowned and returned to his work. A moment later he let the eyepiece drop into this lap.

“There,” he said, slapping the control console closed. He flicked a switch, and sat back in the pilot's chair and stroked his beard.

“We are ready to leave?”

Carson nodded. “I've integrated the control systems of Ms Jones's gun into the ship, while the weapon core itself is mounted on the nose. All we need now is to give it a little kick and we should be able to transfer across and assist our friends.” The Captain looked at the ceiling, head tilted, like he was listening to something. “It's quiet.”

There was a click from somewhere close. The Captain turned in the pilot's seat, but the flight deck was empty. “Byron?”

A shadow moved across Carson's field of vision as Byron went to check.

“Anything?”

A pause, a beat. “Someone approaches,” said Byron.

“Kane!”

Kane stumbled across the threshold, one arm across his middle. His suit was intact but scuffed and dirty, covered in dust and long scratches. He collapsed at the Captain's feet.

“Mr Fortuna, my dear chap?” Carson immediately lowered himself to the floor on the knee above his wooden leg.

Kane rolled onto his back and didn't move again.

Carson looked up to the ceiling. “We leave at once.”

“Sir,” said Byron, and then: “Have you a plan to start the transfer? Kane is too weak. It would exhaust the Fissure completely. The energy flux is unstable as it is.”

Carson pushed himself to his feet. “I always have a plan, my friend.” Unstable on his wooden leg, he overbalanced and fell back into the pilot's seat, then quickly spun it around and readied the controls. The sound of the engines filled the flight deck and he pulled back on the yoke. The
Nimrod
shook and the floor tilted as they took off, the tunnel flashing past the windows until they exited, and flew out into the night. Carson pulled back to gain altitude and turned the craft until the Empire State Building was ahead of them.

“All for one, and so on, and so forth!” Carson cried out over the roar of the engines as he pushed the
Nimrod
forward.

“No!”

Carson glanced over his shoulder as someone rushed towards him from the lip of the bulkhead door. Tall, silver and sleek, man-shaped but big. A robot – James Jones, the machine king.

Carson cried out. As he did, Kane's body jerked into life and stood, then rushed towards James, tackling the robot to the floor. The King of 125th Street screamed as the pair thrashed about.

“Sir, continue,” said Byron, his voice coming from Kane's black mask. “Kane is safe, as is the Fissure. I have him.”

Carson turned back to the windows. “Good show,” he said. The engines thrummed as he accelerated towards the Empire State Building, but his attention was on the struggle behind him reflected in the airship's forward windows.

James had got behind Byron, thick silver arms wrapped around him. Byron grabbed hold of the metal forearms across his chest and struggled to stand, pushing backwards and lifting the attacker's feet from the floor. Advantage in his favor, Byron ripped one arm free from his neck and shot his elbow back, connecting with James's abdomen. James toppled backwards and hit the rear wall of the flight deck. Byron spun around and marched forwards, grabbing the robot by the shoulders, but James jerked into life, pushing Byron away. Byron staggered and James came at him again, throwing two punches, a left and a right, at Byron's face. Each blow connected silently, and Carson realized he was watching the fight in a kind of daze, the sounds of the scuffle hidden under the steady roar of the engines as they pushed the
Nimrod
towards its final destination.

Carson wanted to help, but he knew he couldn't. His only aim now was to keep them flying on target, trusting Byron, in possession of Kane's dying body, to hold the robot king off until transference was complete. Carson flicked a switch. The ship juddered and the nose rose in the air. In the reflection in the front window, Carson saw the tilting ship throw off James's center of gravity. The silver man staggered backwards, arms windmilling, as Carson corrected the ship's course with a sudden yank on the yoke. Byron, used to the motion of the craft, remained upright, braced with both hands against the wall behind him.

Carson allowed himself a grim smile, and increased the throttle. Impact in… ten…

“What are you doing?”

Carson refocused his gaze in the window, shifting from the blue and red lights of the Empire State Building to the ghostly reflected form of the real King of 125th Street behind him.

“
What are you doing?”
James screamed, his voice breaking in anger, his reflection leaping forwards towards Carson's back.

Seven…

Byron intercepted, throwing his body in the way. The two crashed into the back of Carson's chair, jolting the pilot. Carson hissed in pain as something blunt dug into the space between his shoulder blades.

Five…

Byron pushed James, and they stood, two brawlers, each wary of his opponent, each looking for an opening.

Four…

The Empire State Building was very close now. Carson flicked his eyes from the window to the control panel in front of him. He moved his hand over a row of buttons and paused, his thumb hovering over a single control. The ship bucked again and Carson gritted his teeth, feeling the ache in the hand that was still gripping the yoke as the machine, as though sensing what was about to happen, tried to free itself from his control.

Two…

James lunged again, not for Byron but for Carson, grabbing the top of the pilot's seat even as Byron tackled him around the waist. Byron pushed, but the robot king was stronger. Carson slid on the seat as it was rocked by the struggle behind him, the fight dragging his thumb away from the button. He hissed in annoyance as he strained to reach it, but the button was suddenly too far away as James pulled the pilot's chair around.

One…

The ship banked sharply. Through the windows, the horizontal lines of the Empire State Building's façade flipped until they were almost vertical and began to slide diagonally out of view with alarming speed.

Zero…

Carson let go of the yoke and threw himself at the console and the row of buttons. “Transference!” he cried, like shouting the word would make it so.

The hurricane sound of the
Nimrod
's engines swelled as they encountered the resistance of the building in front of them. The nose of the ship connected with the Empire State Building, hitting the stonework between two huge windows. The windows shattered and the stonework cracked, and Carson found himself pushed hard against the controls as inertia took over, trying its best to keep Carson moving while the airship came to a complete and sudden stop.

The metal framework around the
Nimrod's
front windows kinked suddenly. Carson was only dimly aware of this, watching events happening in slow motion, knowing that he had failed.

 

FORTY-FIVE

 

Nobody was taking a second look at her, for which Rad was thankful. The atmosphere in the office filled Rad with a sort of nervous excitement.

He heaved a breath and glanced at Jennifer Jones. She seemed fine, unaffected by the transition from one universe to the next. It was the mask, had to be, or whatever else her brother had done to her. He noticed that she hadn't removed her heavy winter coat. She seemed more comfortable that way. Maybe she knew what was going on underneath, and that wasn't something everyone needed to be a party to.

Rad coughed, suddenly feeling light-headed. New York was making him dizzy. He'd felt better at the police station, but that was because he'd been sitting still in the cell. The little jaunt from the precinct house to the Empire State Building, which was hardly any distance at all on foot, had taken it out of him. Mr Grieves had been in a hell of a hurry, and when Rad had finally had to stop, leaning against a lamppost as his almost non-existent stomach contents threatened to make an appearance, Grieves had paced back and forth, eager to keep going.

But there was something in the air at the office, too. Rad thought there hadn't been much of a time dilation between the here and the there. Somebody had shifted some desks, and he didn't remember the two rubber plants, but Grieves didn't look much older. But then Rad suspected Grieves was one of those men who got to middle age and then seemed to freeze in place for thirty years. Lucky for some.

No, everyone was waiting for something. That was it. He and Jennifer were standing in the middle of the office. When they'd been led in, through a fancy lobby with couches and magazines, Grieves had paused, looked at the unoccupied furniture, and cursed before letting them through the main doors with a passcode spoken through a hatch. Rad had wondered what was so disturbing about an empty couch, but his vision was going grey at the edges and his legs were made of rubber, so the thought flitted away like music on the breeze.

“What are we waiting for?”

Rad looked up. It was Jennifer who spoke, her voice loud and clear, not a wheeze or cough. There were maybe twenty people waiting in a semicircle, most smoking, all of them looking uncomfortable. Nervous. Grieves was on the phone. Rad nodded to him. “Agent?”

Grieves held up a hand and muttered something into the mouthpiece. He hung up. “Confirmed. He's coming down.”

Rad looked at Grieves. “Who?”

The main doors opened, splitting in the middle and swinging apart with sudden force. Everyone in the office turned at the sound, but the man paused at the threshold, wry smile on his pale features, was not looking at them. He was looking at Rad.

“Private Detective Rad Bradley,” said Captain Nimrod.

Rad stood, taking a deep asthmatic breath. He felt that little thrill somewhere, of meeting someone who was the same as a man he'd left in another universe.

“Captain Nimrod. It's a pleasure. May I introduce Special Agent Jennifer Jones, former employee of the Empire State.”

Nimrod flicked his smile to Jennifer, who inclined her head.

“Charmed, I'm sure,” he said quietly, his eyes moving over her metallic features.

“I'm sure pleased to see you, Captain.” Rad huffed another breath.

Nimrod clicked his fingers at Mr Grieves. “Agent, fetch a mask. Our friend here needs some help acclimatizing.”

Rad waved his thanks and pushed his shoulders back, blowing his cheeks out as he fought for air.

“As pleased as I am to see you again, detective, I fear you come as a herald of catastrophe.”

“Uh-huh,” Rad managed.

“Any particular reason, Captain?” asked Jennifer, her hands back on her hips. “Or do you just have a flare for the dramatic like our version?”

Nimrod's mustache bristled. “Your version of what?”

“You.”

“Ah, yes,” said Nimrod. “The remarkable Captain Carson. No, my dear, I speak the truth. I assume if Carson found a way of sending you through to here, then it is either to ask for help or to offer it. As we have had no contact with the other side for some time, I assume it is the former. But as you have arrived at a particularly precipitous moment, your presence could not be more welcome.”

Rad nodded, and looked around. Where the hell was Grieves with the mask? His eyes were about to pop and his vision spun like he'd had a belly full of moonshine. “There's an army in the Empire State. Robots, lots of them, built to defend against an invasion from here. I was hoping you were going to tell me that was a load of baloney.”

Nimrod's eyes narrowed. “Robots?” he asked.

Rad nodded. “Robots,” he said, and then he fell over.

 

Rad awoke to the smell of rubber and charcoal and he breathed deeply, savoring it. In and out, in and out, his breathing light and effortless, the crushing weight on his chest gone. He felt about ready to save the world.

Opening his eyes, he saw Jennifer's golden mask and Nimrod's lined pale face staring at him. Nimrod frowned, then nodded, and sat back behind his desk.

Rad wondered how long he'd been out. He turned to Jennifer. “You filled him in?”

She nodded. “Robots, the big freeze, Kane's dream. The works.”

Rad turned back to Nimrod. “Make any kind of sense to you?”

Nimrod steepled his hands. “I'm afraid it does. And we haven't much time, detective. It seems Kane's vision of the future will come true. Since your last little visit, a new organization has arrived. Created on the orders of the president of this country, they call themselves Atoms for Peace. They are a peaceful, independent foundation, aimed at scientific endeavor and cooperation between power blocs that are otherwise hostile. A noble sentiment, I'm sure you'll agree. Atoms for Peace are headed by a miracle, a woman who has returned from the dead.”

“Excuse me?” said Jennifer.

Nimrod smiled. “Evelyn McHale, their director, was killed several years ago in… an accident. It made the papers –
Life
magazine, even – so when she
returned
, there was quite a furor, I can assure you.”

Rad and Jennifer looked at each other.

“Don't tell me,” Rad said. “She has something to do with the Fissure?”

Nimrod nodded. “Top marks. She is linked to it, a part of it somehow.”

Rad huffed through the respirator. “So the President of the United States of America hired a ghost to run some kind of a scientific institute?”

“Indeed he did. But Atoms for Peace are not what they seem. It is a front, a cover, for something dark and something terrible. The Director wants to control the Fissure, but to do that she must control my department. Atoms for Peace have built their own army, an army of machines. They are planning a war, one which I fear none shall survive. Mutually assured destruction.”

Rad shook his head. “What the hell for? What kind of a war is one you can't win?”

“I would agree entirely,” said Nimrod, “but the Director is doing this for another reason, a reason I have not yet been able to fathom.”

There was a bang from somewhere outside the office, like a door slamming. Rad jumped at the sound, but Nimrod merely pursed his lips. Then the old man slid open the top drawer of his desk and took out a gun and placed it on the wooden surface in front of him.

Rad's eyes moved over the weapon – it was a revolver, and an old one, maybe the same vintage as its owner. But it was clean and the black of it shone under the desk lamp. There was a little loop at the end of the handle, and a fabric cord was attached to it. Rad liked that; it made sense, because presumably you'd attach that to the holster or belt and you'd never drop your gun.

Nimrod's hand rested on the desk near the gun, but he didn't touch it. Rad and Jennifer exchanged a look.

“Time is up,” said Nimrod. He raised his head, the thin skin of his jowls pulled taut. This was the Nimrod Rad remembered.

No. Not Nimrod. Carson. Rad ran a finger around the rubber seal on the underside of his mask. His breathing was easy, and he wondered if he'd acclimatized yet.

“So if this Evelyn McHale is at the heart of it all, how do you stop a ghost?” asked Rad.

Another sound, louder now. Some people talking, men, raised voices. As Rad watched, Nimrod's hand slid over the handle of the gun.

“Every agent I was able to contact is here, in this office,” said the Captain. “It's not all of them, not even a large fraction. But it's all I have. Atoms for Peace have been ordered to shut us down, and it seems they are now making their move.”

Another bang, then another. Gunshots. Gunshots
inside
the office.

“I really don't like the sound of this,” said Rad. He pulled the mask off, up and over his head. His eyes felt dry and hot, but he felt OK.

Jennifer jumped to her feet as another gunshot rang out. Rad wanted to, but took a deep, experimental breath. Nimrod was holding the gun, pointing it at the closed office door.

“Take as many agents as are left,” he said. “I should be able to hold them off. They won't shoot me… well, not straight away, anyway. I imagine there are a few people who wish to speak to me before the sentence is carried out.”

“Before the sentence is carried out?” asked Jennifer, her voice incredulous behind the frozen face.

Nimrod laughed, and this time it was loud, happy, the explosive bark Rad knew from the other version of Nimrod in the Empire State.

“Yes, my dear,” said Nimrod, chuckling to himself. “I'm afraid I'm as much a fugitive as the two of you. This may well be my last stand.” He held up a hand, stopping the objections of Rad and Jennifer. “I am not going to sacrifice myself just so you two can slip out the back. But I will be able to buy you enough time to get from here to the Cloud Club.”

“The Cloud Club?”

The sounds outside the office reached a crescendo, and looking over his shoulder through the frosted glass, Rad could see shadows moving quickly. Any second now, and the place would be swarming with Atoms for Peace agents.

“It's at the top of the Chrysler Building. Here.” Nimrod turned and tore a map off the noticeboard behind him. Rad recognized the outline of the Empire State – of
Manhattan
– but when he took it from Nimrod, a lot of the street and building names were different from what he knew.

Nimrod jabbed a finger at the map. “It's not far. Stay under cover if you can, but don't dawdle. Once this department falls, the Fissure is hers, and I doubt she'll waste any time enacting her plan.”

“What do you suggest we do when we get to this Cloud Club?” asked Jennifer.

Nimrod tutted. “My dear young lady, you must stop the Director. Her army cannot be sent through. Stop her and stop them, at all costs.”

“But how?” asked Jennifer.

“We'll think of something.” Rad looked at Nimrod “We need agents and guns.”

Nimrod nodded and strode around his desk. He yanked the door open and marched into the main office, heedless of the chaos around him.

The sound of gunfire stopped, and Rad could see several of Nimrod's agents turn from where they had hidden themselves behind overturned desks and cabinets.

Mr Grieves was nearest to them. Nimrod motioned to him, and Grieves waved the remaining agents to follow. Running at a crouch, despite Nimrod standing tall and bold in the center of the room, the agents filed past Rad and Jennifer. Rad counted five.

Five agents, with whatever ammunition they had left, to save the world. Rad didn't like the odds.

Grieves came up behind Rad's shoulder. “What's the plan?”

“Cloud Club. Know the way?”

“Sure,” Grieves whispered. “We can get out the service elevator.”

Rad nodded. “Jennifer?”

“What's he doing?”

Rad peered out through the crack in the door. Nimrod was standing in the middle of the Department. In front of him, twenty black-suited, black-hatted agents from Atoms for Peace stalked towards him, each aiming their compact automatic pistol at his head.

“Captain Nimrod,” said the agent in front. He had short blond hair under his hat, and an elegant face with strong cheekbones. “You are under arrest. New York City is now under the control of Atoms for Peace.”

“I see,” said Nimrod. “In which case, I believe the phrase ‘take me to your leader' is most appropriate.”

The agent's face broke into a smirk. “I don't think you're in any position to make demands.”

“Oh,” said Nimrod. “That wasn't a demand. No. Now, this, this is a demand.”

In one swift movement Nimrod raised his antique firing piece, aiming it squarely at the blond agent's forehead. The agent was so close the barrel nearly touched his skin.

Rad saw the agent's face slacken, his eyes widen just a hair.

Nimrod pulled back the hammer of his revolver. In the dead silence of the office, the click the weapon made as the spring and catch engaged was surprisingly loud.

“I said, take me to your leader.”

Rad felt a tug at his elbow. He turned to see Mr Grieves holding out guns.

“Come on,” he said, and another agent hit a hidden switch on the bookcase at the back of the office. There was a click and the bookcase swung out to reveal a dimly lit corridor.

“Two agents front, two agents rear, our guests in the middle. Got it?”

The agents nodded, and Grieves pointed the way with his gun.